


all and then most of you, some and now none of you

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: And bakes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bitty ends up as an action figure, Freshman Year, Jack sings Queen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Soulmate AU, Year One, and you need to go on a journey of self-discovery to get them back to normal, in this case it's just learning to love yourself, soulmate, supportive family, supportive friends, when you find your soulmate they temporarily turn into an inanimate object
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: After weeks of dedicated checking clinics, numerous practices, shinnys, team meals, and a handful of games, it’s a miracle it didn’t happen sooner. Bittle poofs away, leaving behind an oversized OYO figure with ‘15’ painted on the back of it’s tiny, red Samwell jersey.Jack stares at the toy for a full minute before nudging him with the tip of his skate. Distantly he can recognize he’s breathing harder than he should be, his own heartbeat ringing in his ears.“Bittle, c’mon, we have to be out of here in an hour,” Jack pleads, annoyed at the tightness in his throat. “Please?”_______In order to save your intended from a cursed eternity, you have to make peace with your personal demons. Jack Zimmermann has always been afraid of finding his soulmate for exactly that reason._





	all and then most of you, some and now none of you

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an old Shitty-Check-Please-Aus soulmate au prompt where when you meet your soulmate they turn into an inanimate object until you complete a ‘quest’, but the quest is really a journey of self-discovery. I finished this like a year ago but never posted it and I’m sorry. Title from Lord Huron’s ‘The Night We Met’

The facility his parents had selected was discreet: quiet, full of old money and older secrets. His peers don’t  _look_  like they’ve been abusing substances, but then again no one  _looks_  like anything. Even the most ragged junkies have veneered smiles and manicured nails; Jack is the one out of place with his sallow skin, hoarse voice, and shaking hands.

Today, he’s sitting in a circle of recovering addicts when he learns to be afraid of finding his soulmate.

They’re talking about grief —among other things — sourcing their addictions and finding their triggers. Emily, two chairs to Jack’s left, is a banking executive who has worn the same cashmere scarf every day he’s seen her. Today, she clutches at the fabric around her neck like a lifeline and introduces the accessory as Charles, her soulmate of ten years.

A strip of cashmere that at one point was a human being.

“I know when I get clean he’ll come back to me,” she insists, with only the barest hint of desperation, “just have to keep trying.”

Jack’s sudden urge to vomit can’t be blamed on withdrawal.

When group ends, James, who claims his family owns the mineral rights to the largest oil field in Alberta, jumps at the chance to gossip.

“She’s been in and out of treatment for  _years._ Always the same story,  _‘I’ll stop drinking’, 'I’ll stop taking pills’,_  but the universe saddled that poor bastard with a crazy and now he’s  _never_  going to be human again.”

Jack is wounded enough to internalize the jaded parts of James’ commentary. He thinks about  _his_  pills.  _His_  drinking. About the voices in  _his_  head that won’t shut up unless he’s imbibed enough liquor to knock out a man twice his size. He thinks about his parents: Bad Bobby Z, who spent a week on IR because Alicia had kissed his cheek for a photo op at some benefit and he’d turned into a wristwatch.

It’d hardly taken any time at all for Alicia to make peace with her demons — reportedly a fear of commitment but Jack knows better now — and Bob was back like nothing had ever happened.

Everyone finds their soulmate, everyone has to deal with the change, everyone has to look within for self-love and acceptance. That’s how it works.

Accept yourself, find happiness.

Except for those who don’t find themselves. People like Emily; the selfish, cruel, broken few who refuse to take responsibility for their actions, refuse to grow, to care, and damn their soulmates to stay objects forever.

Jack traces the small scab on his hand left over from the IV. He doesn’t want to be Emily. He doesn’t want to condemn some innocent person to an eternity in limbo because they were unlucky enough to have him as a soulmate.

He doesn’t want a soulmate. He doesn’t deserve one.

He was lucky with Kenny, even if Parse didn’t agree in the slightest. He can’t risk that again.

Jack takes that fear and tucks it away deep in his arrhythmic heart.

He doesn’t want a soulmate. He doesn’t deserve one.

 

* * *

 

Junior year was always going to present problems, but a freshman afraid of checking is curse Jack wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

It’s been infuriating, to say the least, but they’ve made so much progress that Jack’s finally feeling like Bittle might have a handle on his phobia.

He’s still fighting his instinct to snap at the Frog, but he’s getting better, and after Bittle’s assist Jack has growing confidence that he’s done his part as captain to get Bittle up to the same level of his teammates. His speed alone may not get him onto first or second line anytime soon, but at least the kid won’t lose his scholarship on Jack’s watch.

"Alright, little lower, little faster,” Jack warns, confident when Bittle bends slightly at the waist and braces for impact. Jack drops a shoulder and slides into him just so, Bittle’s jersey riding up at the contact so Jack’s bare wrist grazes a sliver of an exposed hip.  

After weeks of dedicated checking clinics, numerous practices, shinnys, team meals, and a handful of games, it’s a miracle it didn’t happen sooner.

Bittle poofs away, leaving behind an oversized OYO figure with ‘BITTLE’ painted on the back of it’s tiny, red, Samwell jersey.

Jack stares at the toy for a full minute before nudging him with the tip of his skate. Distantly he can recognize he’s breathing harder than he should be, his own heartbeat ringing in his ears.

“Bittle, c’mon, we have to be out of here in an hour.” Jack pleads after a moment, annoyed at the tightness in his throat. “Please?”

This is wonderful. Terrible. Amazing. The absolute worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone.

Bittle doesn’t snap back. It’s all Jack can do to ease down against the boards, sprawling his legs on the ice to wait out what’s coming next. He stares at what used to be Eric Bittle, tries to breathe the way his therapist taught him, and lets himself shake.

When Jack comes back to himself, Bittle’s tiny plastic face is staring up at him, annoyingly cheerful. Jack’s legs are cramping at the awkward angle he’s contorted himself into, he can hear children laughing and checks his watch.

7:02

Jack has a headache, his ass is freezing, and his soulmate is a children’s toy.

 

* * *

 

The locker room is mostly empty when Jack slides Bittle from the pocket of his sweatshirt and heads toward the coaching offices.

 It had been a calculated decision to wait to speak with the coaches, but even so, Jack’s fingers fidget nervously over the plastic figure.

It’s soothing to maintain physical contact, a warm sensation he’s only read about before now, and he doesn’t  _want_  to put Bittle down. It seems wrong. Unsafe.

The moment before Hall opens the door, Jack nearly loses himself in memories of Emily grasping desperately at a too-soft scarf.

“Jack. You wanted to speak with us?”

He nods and opens his hand to display the figurine dressed in Samwell red. Murray brightens immediately.

“Is that Eric Bittle?” He asks leaning across the desk to examine the figure closer. “That is the most adorable Animus I think I’ve ever seen.”

Jack bristles slightly at the pronouncement, though he isn’t quite sure why it upsets him.

“We set aside ice time to work one on one,” Jack explains, “and, euh, I touched him. Bittle won’t lose his scholarship, will he? If he can’t play?”

Hall shakes his head.

“The school can’t rescind academic scholarships due to circumstances caused by a Turning. Same rules apply for athletic scholarships. Plus it should only be a few weeks, Samwell won’t even notice he’s gone; which is why you’ll need to report your situation to the administration office and Bittle’s advisor,” Hall explains, doing his best to avoid staring at the toy in Jack’s hand. “Thank god it happened sooner than later.”

It’s as much as Jack can hope for when another thought hits him.

_Thank god it wasn’t you._

The words are unspoken, but Jack hears them all the same, clutching Bittle firmly in one hand and shouldering his gear bag with the other.

He exhales slowly, relieved to have a defined task to focus his energy on and tries not to feel like he’s burdening the team. He fails.

 

* * *

 

Jack reports the Turning. Signs a liability waiver. Bittle’s academic advisor assures him the school can reach out to Eric’s family if Jack isn’t ready to, which is a godsend because he really isn’t in any kind of shape to deal with the fact he has a  _soulmate._ A realization that brings butterflies of excitement and dread in equal measure.

Two weeks is the average time for a soulmate to revert back to normal. Jack can handle this situation for two weeks. He has to.

When he gets back to the Haus, he ignores Johnson and his knowing smile outright, instead opting to raid the fridge for anything that will ease the madness of the day. He needs comfort food. Carbs. Something indulgent.

Behind a bottle of Sriracha and an empty egg carton, he finds his personal Tupperware container with  _‘DON’T TOUCH’_ scrawled across the red lid _._ He pops it open to find the slice of apple pie he’d salvaged from Bittle’s last team night has several bites missing.

 _"Qu'est-ce que vous attendiez?”_  He mutters to himself, tossing the container into the microwave. “ _Monstres.”_

He briefly considers radiation and cancer as he watches the lump of pie spin clockwise for thirty seconds but the concern isn’t enough to prompt him to move his face away from the food splattered window.

He tries not to think about Bittle when he burns the roof of his mouth because he doesn’t wait for the pie to cool. He fails spectacularly and his eyes begin to tear after he’s scraped the last crumb from the dish.

“Thank you for the pie,” he says, pulling Bittle from the pocket of his sweatshirt. “You’re a good cook. Baker. Person.”

He might get to have this. Maybe forever. He sets the container in the sink, leaving it for later.

He tries not to think about Emily’s scarf while he cradles Bittle in his hands, but he’s lived every day of his life under the shadow of unfocused anxiety; terrified of what is, what has been, what might be.

Bittle is just the newest problem for his mind to over-examine.

Jack puts Bittle on his desk and tries to finish his sociology reading. Above him, he can hear Holster watching something with a laugh-track. He smells Shitty’s weed through the cracked window. He looks up and fights a rush of irritation at Bittle’s little smile as he struggles through three pages of discourse on American nationalism before he has to flip the toy around to face the wall.

“You’re distracting me.”

Bittle doesn’t answer and Jack’s focus doesn’t suddenly return.

The smoke is cloying. The muffled sitcom the worst kind of mocking white noise. Someone is taking a shower. He spends another ten minutes on the same page before he gives up, frustrated and suddenly, desperately exhausted.

He closes the book and turns Bittle back toward him. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “this isn’t your fault. You’re a toy. It’s my fault.”

Again, silence.

For the first time in a long time, Jack locks his door and pulls his shades closed. He puts on something to drown out the white noise of his nerves, and the campus radio station does the trick. Jack recognizes the folksy crooning of Mumford and Sons and tries to remember the name of the song as he falls back onto his bed, Bittle clutched in his hands.

He’s overcome. Too many emotions too quickly, but it’s familiar, the same rush of sadness he’d felt after waking up in the hospital. After his parents had apologized  _to him_ for not realizing he was struggling. Love and shame. Guilt and relief.

“You’re my soulmate,” Jack whispers, holding Bittle above him. “I have a soulmate _._ ”

A door slams in between songs — startling him —  and he drops Bittle on his face. He says  _‘ow’_  more out of reflex than actual pain when the little hockey stick pokes him in the eye.

He deserved that. He’s been an ass.

 

* * *

 

Jack knows he should be the one to tell the team that Bittle is currently a six-inch tall action figure, but Coach Hall beats him to the punch.

“Bittle is scratched for the next few weeks,” Hall announces before practice. “Knight, we’re putting Davidson on your line for the time being.”

“What! Where’s our beautiful Bitty?” Shitty decries. “What happened?”

Jack clears his throat and points up to where he’s positioned Bittle against a water bottle in his stall.

“Bro,” Ransom whispers, “Bitty found his soulmate?”

“Jack, you beautiful fucking snowflake.“ Shitty is on his feet, eyes bright, clearly having put things together more quickly than his teammates.

“Bittle is Jack’s soulmate!” Holster crows, chucking a glove at Jack. “Zimmermann’s got a soulmate!”

” _Zimmermann has a soul?_ “ Someone chirps, and Jack isn’t quick enough to catch who when he turns to look.

The room is an absolute mess of screaming hockey players and sweaty hugs. Jack realizes, ashamed, that this is the first time  _he’s_ felt anything close to happy about the development himself. He has a soulmate. A tiny, blond, Georgian soulmate. Who bakes and sings and flies across the ice, and —

“Maybe just keep it quiet for now, eh? Don’t need the whole school knowing Bittle’s Anima is a toy.”

Hall starts clapping to calm them down and draw attention back to the actual point of the meeting: their upcoming game against Rensselaer.

As the boys retreat to their stalls, Bittle falls over at the jostling, landing softly right onto Jack’s padded lap. He takes it as a positive sign.

 

* * *

 

‘ _Zimmermann Finds Freshman Soulmate?’_

It takes little over a week for The Swallow to put Jack on the cover. It’d be flattering if it wasn’t such a breach of privacy.

It’s been nine days since Jack’s touch turned Bittle into a toy and TMZ has picked up The Swallow’s story by noon. His mother calls not a half hour later, and he doesn’t need to ask how she knows; between his mother’s agent and his father’s publicist, Jack’s never been able to keep his personal life much of a secret — at least not since the overdose.

“Is it true?”

The hope in his mother’s voice makes Jack’s gut clench. He doesn’t quite understand why he doesn’t want to share this with his parents. Shame, maybe, but not for the reason anyone would think.  He fights the fear within him and clutches the phone tightly in one hand, the other wrapped loosely around Bitty when he whispers ‘Y _es_ ’.

 

* * *

 

The second-week rolls on into a third and the soulmate situation has escalated from  _normal_  to  _uncommon_  and uncommon situations have never been most forgiving environments for anxious people to be in.

Jack is exhausted, any time not allocated for class or on practice is spent in the library scouring websites, books, and magazines for anything that might help Bittle become human again.

Jack was already irrationally worried that Bittle will never be human again because his mental health situation isn’t the greatest but to have that fear reinforced by every other article he finds is a uniquely unpleasant form of torture.

Shitty brings him food but he can’t eat. Because he hasn’t eaten, he doesn’t have the energy for practice. Because he can’t play well, his anxiety keeps him awake at night. Even if he could sleep he knows his dreams would be terrifying visions of realities where Bittle doesn’t turn back and Jack is institutionalized for being a sociopath.

Every piece of information offers a different analysis. Jack’s not introspective enough. He’s not understanding enough. He’s not compassionate enough. If he just stops trying so hard the problem will correct itself, but that’s only if he wasn’t trying hard enough in the first place.

[Worst case scenario - failed bond]

[Worst case - Jack’s a sociopath]

[ _Worstcaseworstcaseworstcase—_ ]

His therapist is on speed dial and Jack can’t bring himself to answer the phone when the same Georgia number pops up over and over and over.

The coaches try to be sympathetic and the boys all give him wide berth while he adjusts, but in the meantime, the team still treats Bitty like one of their own. One morning there’s a new shelf added to Jack’s stall, featuring poorly molded miniature pads, skates, and sticks, so Bittle doesn’t feel left out in the locker room. Which is fine, it’s just the jersey…

"Oilers?”

“Bro, the world is seriously lacking in hockey dress up toys, which is a tragedy for children everywhere, so we made do with stripping a Gretzky Ken doll.”

“Bitty’s an Oiler now.  Have to make him feel at home,” Holster chides. “Makes it easier.”

“Are they aware?” Jack asks, realizing he hasn’t entertained the possibility before. He hasn’t been doing much to make Bittle comfortable; as much as one can make a hunk of plastic comfortable; maybe this will help after all.

“Everyone is different, but, I mean, yeah, how can you not be aware? It’s your soul. Rans always said he could hear me talking to him.” Holster responds, knocking a glove gently to Bittle’s outstretched arm. “Right, Bitty? You’re in there aren’t you, depriving us good people of your culinary genius.”

“So, he’s in there just hanging out?” Jack asks.

“Finding your soulmate isn’t about becoming the person you think they need you to be. It’s about finding your own happiness. Bringing balance to yourself before you can balance a relationship. That’s not to say it isn’t fucking hard as shit, but this is all about being content with who you are. All of you. The good and the bad, you know? This isn’t about who you need to be for Bitty, it’s about who you need to be for  _Jack_. Feel me?”

“Nothing happens by chance, bro. You meet your mate at the perfect time for spiritual growth. This is your chance to become one with the universe, J. Embrace your inner Zimmermann. Let go of the past and forgive yourself for who you were to welcome who you might become.”

Jack looks at Shitty, then to the rest of the guys still loading up their gear, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Yeah, alright,” Jack acquiesces. “I can…be myself. Me. That’s fine.”

That night Jack sets Bitty on his nightstand and apologizes at length for anything and everything he can think of.

“If I hadn’t gone to Samwell we might have never met. You’d still be human.“

Bittle doesn’t interrupt him so he keeps going.

“I’m afraid of failure, of disappointing my parents, of playing into a reputation I’ll likely spend the rest of my career living down. If I have a career,” Jack adds, patting his hands dry on the front of his sweatshirt. "I don’t expect you to completely understand, but it’s a unique situation.”

Jack reaches out to tap Bittle so his head bobbles like he’s listening, and he watches the motion slow to nothing. He repeats the action two more times. It’s nothing like having a real conversation, but it’s easier and easier to talk like this. It’s been over a month now, and Jack’s sliding headfirst into dangerous territory. Everyone on the team knows it, even if they’re too kind to say.

With a ton of energy and nothing to do besides spilling his secrets to a toy, Jack throws on a pair of headphones and finds his 'Victory’ channel on Pandora, ready to lose himself to Queen.

"You’re the only one that gets to see this,” he warns, pressing play. “Don’t tell anyone.

"I’ve paid my dues, time after time. I’ve done my sentence but committed no crime,” Jack mouths, reaching out dramatically for Bittle, fully aware of how ridiculous he’d look to anyone watching. “And bad mistakes, I’ve made a few –” he does a jump on the guitar riff and freezes when the motion shakes the nightstand, nearly toppling Bittle.

“I’ve had my share of sand kicked in my face, but I’ve come through,” Jack continues whispering, stock still, watching carefully as Bittle balances back, though his head keeps bobbing. “You liked that?” he asks. “A little danger?”

He jumps again at the chorus to make Bittle react. Then again. And again. Until Shitty bangs on the door and yells, “It’s almost midnight shut the fuck up, Zimmermann!”

“All I want to hear is your voice,” Jack mutters, flashing a middle finger at the closed door. “How stupid is that?” 

Bittle doesn’t answer.

It’s very stupid.

 

* * *

 

Soon Bittle has his own seat in the cafeteria at lunch, on the bus, in every class that Jack shares with a teammate. The professors who still call roll jump at the novelty of having an Anima attending classes, and when they call ‘Bittle’, Jack dutifully replies ‘ _Here_.’

Then, Shitty and Lardo proudly present a miniature away jersey that Bittle can wear on the road. Soon enough he has a tiny clipboard and whistle, and Jack finds himself dressing Eric in different little outfits on game days.

“Lookin’ dapper as fuck, Bitty!” Shitty hollers, stripping down after an easy win. “Kinda hard to think Jack picked out your outfit.”

The little figure doesn’t respond, and the painted smile doesn’t adjust in the slightest. It’s his new pre-game ritual. Eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, dress Bittle for the game.

Jack also gets in the habit of treating Bittle like a confessional pulpit after losses.

After one particularly brutal beating, Jack brushes his teeth and grins at his reflection with a mouth full of foam: his bloodshot eyes paired the white froth making him look rabid.

“You aren’t supposed to mix Xanax with alcohol,” he says aloud after he spits, ignoring the spots of pink in the basin from where he brushed too hard. He looks to Bittle, who is posed atop the toilet tank, ever cheerful. “You were a figure skater, I bet you saw your fair share of drug abuse but that wasn’t me.”

He quickly relieves himself and then reaches for Bittle, but stops. He hasn’t washed his hands yet and somehow touching his soulmate right after touching his dick doesn’t translate well in this situation, so he grabs the soap and lathers up.

“I took too much,” Jack finishes before scrubbing a wet washcloth over his face.“I panicked, which I’m pretty good at, I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I didn’t really want to die, I managed to text Kenny before I passed out. He called my parents and the paramedics. He’s maybe the only reason I’m still alive.”

Jack taps Bittle’s head lightly.

“Still feel bad about that,” he admits. “You’re a good listener. I hope you get a chance to talk back, soon.”

 

* * *

 

Family Weekend comes on hard and fast and truth be told Jack isn’t ready to see his father waiting in his bedroom when he gets done with classes one balmy Friday. 

He fumbles his bag and drops it in favor of not losing hold of Bitty.

“Whoa, easy there, bud,” Bob lifts a hand to help and ends up taking Bitty instead of Jack’s hand.

“Papa –” Jack says, trying to keep himself steady as he offers his father Bittle’s Anima.

“Jack?” Bob questions, examining the small figure. “What is this?”

“It’s Bittle. Eric. Uh, Eric Bittle. I didn’t … he’s my soulmate. Bitty.”

Bob startles badly enough he nearly drops the figure and Jack’s adrenaline spikes.

“Sorry, sorry!” Bob apologizes, readjusting to handle Bitty with much more care. “When did this happen?”

“About two months ago,” Jack answers, cheeks flushed with shame. “I wanted to get him back first before I told you,” he trails off, knowing his father grasps the seriousness of the situation.

They all know the statistics. The longer a person stays an object, the less likely they are to come back. Jack doesn’t need to explain his failure any further.  

“I’ve been carrying him with me but I don’t trust taking him on the ice.”

Bob cradles the figure to his chest. “Two months? How well are you handling this?”

“I… I don’t think I am. Handling it. If I was, Bittle wouldn’t still be like this.”

“You call him ‘Bittle’?” 

“I mean,” Jack fights a rush of embarrassment. “He’s…Bittle.”

Bob purses his lips in a frown. “Son, I know you’re doing this your own way, that’s the whole point, but maybe you should start by calling your soulmate by his first name?”

Jack hesitates, looks down at the Anima in his father’s hand, and mumbles, “Bitty?”

Jack’s pretty sure his father curses under his breath.

 

* * *

 

After the game, Jack is still nursing his wounded ego. Losing at home during Family Weekend isn’t the worst thing in the world but it sure feels like it. However, when Jack rounds the corner to the locker room and sees his father standing with a short blonde woman who can only be Suzanne Bittle, he realizes there are worse things in life.

_“– Well, I’d assumed Dicky would be back to normal so I didn’t cancel the trip, and since the school kept saying nothing was amiss I just, well, you know how it is, can’t control how you worry about your babies –”_

Jack coughs to announce his presence and Suzanne whips around so fast Jack’s certain she’s wearing skates and they’re back on the ice.

“Papa?”

Bob snickers and motions for Jack to come closer. 

“Good lord, look at  _you_.” 

“Jack, son, this is Suzanne.”

“I know who she is,” Jack admits, fighting the cresting wave of shame in his gut. “Hello, Mrs. Bittle.”

“So, you’re the infamous Jack,” Suzanne addresses, puffing her chest slightly as if it will make her any more intimidating than she already is. “You are much more, ah, handsome than expected.”

“Was I supposed to be ugly?” 

Jack’s fear dissipates slightly to be replaced with irritation on Bittle’s behalf when his father grins indulgently at the pronouncement. 

“Your father filled me in,” Suzanne sidesteps question like a professional and moves to pull Jack into a loose hug. “Why don’t you show us where Eric is at and we’ll see if we can’t give you a bit of a hand.”

Jack knows he deserves whatever’s coming next when he leads his father and potential mother-in-law into the Samwell locker room.

“Mama Bittle’s on deck, gentleman!” Jack announces before opening the door fully. 

“Cover your business!”

Jack guides Suzanne to his stall, dropping into the seat to start removing his pads.

“Mama Bittle and Bad-Fucking-Bob! Way to bury the lead, Jack-a-belle,” Shitty crows, launching himself at Jack’s father.

“Is he here?“ Bob asks, waving off Shitty’s attempt at a sweaty bear hug. "Eric?"

Jack grimaces and points up to the little diorama display above them. Holster has done a stellar job keeping up with their whole-assed ‘ _make Bitty human again_ ’ campaign, and currently, Bittle is dressed in a miniature Samwell hoodie, with a whistle and clipboard.

"Bitty’s assistant captain this week,” Wicks calls from across the room. “Takes the stress off Jack.”

“Wait!” Shitty interjects, reaching into the stall to flick over the diorama’s tiny garbage can full of balled up straw wrappers. “Jack, look, he’s disappointed in how we played. Now you don’t have to yell at us.”

“Y’all gave Eric the A in his first season?” Suzanne plays along. “That’s impressive. I’m sure his daddy will be proud.”

“Yeah, we gave him the A so Jack can give him the D,” Ollie shouts proudly.

Bob snorts and Jack blushes so hard his only course of action is to drape a towel over his face and wait out the resulting storm of chirps. Suzanne laughs and Jack fights the smile pulling at the corner of his lips and has to act distracted when he catches his father looking at him instead of Bittle.

“Lord, how cute.” Suzanne breathes. Jack is taken aback by her reaction and looks up, though he can’t really see anything through the terry-cloth. “You’re actually trying. I thought for sure Dic- _Eric’s_  soulmate had him in a drawer somewhere. Can I?”

“Of course I’m trying,” Jack says softly, motioning that she can take him.

Suzanne takes Bitty down with a soft  _“Hey, sweetheart,”_  and the clipboard falls from his loose grip onto the top of Jack’s head. It doesn’t hurt, but he flinches on reflex. The chirps come immediately.

“Oh, lover’s quarrel!”

“Two for flinching!”

“ _Fuck you!_ “ Someone shouts from the showers and Jack chucks a knee pad at the source of the sound. 

“Hey! Guests!” Jack shoots back, remembering his soulmate’s mother is right in front of him. “ _Crisse,_ s-sorry,” he stammers as Bob gives him a disapproving look.

Suzanne giggles, and says something that sounds like,  _'I’ve missed locker room talk.’_ Bob hums in agreement and slaps a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“We should let you change, then how about dinner? The four of us?“

It’s all Jack can do to nod in affirmation, too distracted by Suzanne already walking away with Bittle still in her hands.

“Euh, Mrs., um, Suzanne?” He calls, standing quickly enough he knocks his temple against the backup skates hanging in his stall. “Can I — can he —?” He gestures to Bittle trying to stop the desperation he’s feeling from blossoming into panic. She looks down at the figure in her hands and flushes a warm, rosy-pink that almost matches the color of Bittle’s painted cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, honey, I wasn’t thinking at all,” she shoulders past Bob to hand Eric back to Jack, “you’d think I didn’t have a lick of common sense…we’ll see you two outside, then.”

Jack prays his father doesn’t notice how badly his hands are shaking when he takes Bittle back from Suzanne.

 

* * *

 

Eric’s mother tells him about the vlog, thinking it might help Jack to see what Eric was like before Samwell. Before Jack cursed him to spend eternity as a children’s toy.

Jack watches video after video, memorizing Eric’s face, his laugh, and decides after an hour or so he’s going to try to bake a pie.

He perches Bits on the shelf to oversee and gets to work: measuring, mixing, being generally irritated when he runs out of butter, then forgets to flour the counter and his crust sticks so badly he has to start again.

“Practice makes perfect,” Jack says, more to himself than Eric, and he goes again; rolling out the dough just enough to fit the undersized pie tin he’d bought on a whim the week prior.

Baking doesn’t go well. The oven is too hot, the crust too thin, but in the end there is an honest-to-god apple pie in Jack’s hands.

“You’re still good,” Jack whispers to himself, suddenly overcome as he clutches the tiny pie with its uneven lattice crust and burnt sugar coating, “little burnt, little broken ‘round the edges, but still good _._ ”

His vision blurs because the pie is burning his palms through the hand towel he’s using as an oven mitt and he can’t seem to let go. His soulmate is a toy, and he breathes in a one-two-three count, trying to ground himself.

“We’re still good, too,” he amends shakily as he sets the pie on the stove. His fingers are suddenly throbbing with newly acquired burns and when he looks up to Eric – for approval or condemnation, he cannot say – only to find he isn’t there.

“Bittle?” Jack asks, trying not to stress as he searches around the counter, the sink, the floor. He looks in each drawer and opens every cabinet, even the ones he’s sure he didn’t use. Next comes the fridge. Nothing. He even upends the garbage, spilling eggshell and flour and apple rinds everywhere. Nothing. He balks at the thought of looking in the oven, his mind already conjuring horrific images of Bitty’s melted plastic face, but he checks nonetheless. No Eric, just a blackened chunk of a chicken tender Ransom had stolen from the cafeteria a week ago.

“Bitty!”

He reminds himself Eric is a toy. He couldn’t have gone far; Jack remembers setting him on the shelf, but his nerves have him ready to tear the Haus apart nail by nail.

“Jack?” 

Something moves out of the corner of Jacks eye and he freezes, terrified to let himself hope that this is anything more than an anxious hallucination, but the heavy thunk of skate blades on hardwood is unmistakably familiar.

Jack turns and finds Bittle is whole and hale, balancing on his skates, a hand braced on the counter, while he tries to find his bearings. 

“Why am I … in the kitchen?” Bitty blinks up at Jack, dazed.

“What do you remember?” Jack whispers, stepping forward slowly, careful not the break the illusion if he _has_ finally lost his mind.

“Enough? I think,” Bitty shakes his head and nudges in closer, letting Jack grab hold of him. “Jack, are you my soulmate?”

Jack’s remaining resolve crumbles. They’re not the same height but almost. Enough that Jack barely has to reach when he leans in to press his lips against Eric’s.

“That feels like a yes,” Bitty mumbles when they part. “How long was I gone?”

Jack laughs against the lump in his throat and rests his chin on the crown of Bittle’s head, breathing in the stale sweat of a month’s past checking practice, clutching his soulmate close.

“Too long,” Jack whispers. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

 


End file.
